


The Upper Hand

by lamardeuse



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They argue constantly. And Marcus, Mithras help him, loves it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Upper Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to misspamela for inspiration. :)

They argue constantly.  
  
They argue about which plot of land to buy: Marcus wants one near Itálica, but Esca doesn’t fancy being that close to a city full of Romans, and so they settle on a more isolated part of Andalucía. They argue about what style of house to build, what materials to use: Marcus wins those battles, as he knows more about southern climes than Esca. They argue about which horses to buy, where to plant the grain to feed them, how to put the seeds in the ground: in short, they argue about nearly everything.  
  
And Marcus, Mithras help him, loves it.  
  
He craves these fights as he craves air to breathe and water to drink. At least half the time, he starts an argument without a real stake in a favourable outcome; his only wish is that it should last long enough for him to bask in Esca’s tempers, his foul looks, and his snarled words. For it is in those precious moments that he can see Esca’s eyes flash, his face flush, his lip curl; can hear his voice rough with emotion; can almost feel the heat coming off him as Esca leans close and ever closer, trying to make up for his height with the sheer force of his belligerent presence. And afterward, Marcus lies in the darkness late at night, biting his lip to keep himself quiet, and imagines Esca’s strong hands in place of his own, Esca’s taut body pressing against him, Esca’s sharp teeth sinking into the tendons of his neck. Marcus imagines that Esca’s fucking is like his fighting, and he comes with hardly any effort at all.  
  
This, Marcus is certain, is all he will ever have of Esca, and so he makes the most of it. Or at least as much as he can without driving Esca away, and that is a line he must tread with care. If he is too contrary, Esca may decide to leave him one day, and that will break him, take half of his soul and abandon the other half to wither and die.  
  
And then one day, Esca starts an argument over the sale of one of the new foals: he learns that Marcus has all but promised it to the daughter of a Roman family down the road, and he flies into a rage, cursing Marcus with abandon. Marcus is startled at the depth of Esca’s anger – there are many foals, and one is much like the other – but he cannot say he does not relish the opportunity to enjoy a furious Esca. And so he gives as much as he gets, his voice rising to match Esca’s, his blood pounding under his skin. Marcus stands in the middle of a field in Andalucía, watching his Esca dance angrily before him, hands waving in the warm summer breeze, and knows there is nowhere he would rather be.  
  
“I wish I could stop your arrogant Roman mouth!” Esca shouts in Marcus’ face. His fists are clenched now, and Marcus worries that he may be carrying this too far, but he cannot resist one more jibe before surrendering the fight.  
  
He takes a step toward Esca, and their chests brush. It is almost too much. “Are you not clever enough to think of a way, Brigantes?” he drawls, smirking down at him.  


Everything – the breeze, the sun in the sky, Esca’s panted breaths – seems to stop all at once. Esca stares at him for a second, a minute, a year, and then his hands uncurl and seize Marcus’ face to draw it down. And then Esca is kissing him with a savagery to match their argument, his body curving into Marcus’ as though they had been made to fit together. Marcus sucks a startled breath in through his nose, and then he is wrapping his arms around Esca and clasping him close, closer, certain that he is still in his bed and dreaming, for Esca cannot possibly want this as much as he does.

“Stupid – bastard –” Esca mutters between kisses, hands now buried in Marcus’ hair, “could have done this – _months_ ago –”

“Esca,” Marcus groans, “Esca, yes –”

“Yes, you are a stupid bastard?” Esca manages. “That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all day.”

Marcus cannot help himself; he starts to laugh, and has to pull back and lean his forehead against Esca’s, even as he continues to hold him in the circle of his arms. “No more arguments,” he says, the joy bubbling up inside him, making him light-headed. “Not for now.”

“Oh, no, my friend, this is when the arguments begin in earnest,” Esca says, grinning evilly. “For example, we must decide which one of us will shortly be on his knees.”

Holding Esca’s gaze, Marcus reaches down between them and palms the front of Esca’s breeches. Esca’s eyes widen, and he sucks in a startled breath as Marcus leans in.

“Oh, but there is no argument there, my Esca,” Marcus murmurs in Esca’s ear. “For I will gladly kneel before you, and take you in my mouth, and pleasure you until you cry my name.”

“Marcus,” Esca breathes, reaching up to brush his thumb across Marcus’ lips. Marcus ducks his head to suck on it, and Esca shudders in his arms.

“Come,” Marcus says, stepping back, and for once there is no argument as they break into a run to see who will reach the cottage door first.

  



End file.
